


Autumn

by ArtisticRainey



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Gen, Here be angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 05:37:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5856196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtisticRainey/pseuds/ArtisticRainey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Autumn on the island isn’t like autumn in Kansas. An exploration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Autumn

Autumn on the island isn’t like autumn in Kansas. Wichita Septembers bounced around between the sixties and the eighties, never knowing quite where to settle. Octobers were the same – and it wasn’t until November bit that the real cold started to seep in. Then it was time for warm sweaters and steaming mugs of tea in front of the open fire, with the sounds of Virgil at the piano the chorus to it all. By the time December rolled around and winter finally sunk its teeth in, it was all chapped lips and frozen noses, Scott with Kleenex at the front door and John’s heavy scowls as snow was tramped through the house. Then there was the bright anticipation of the rise of the Christmas tree and the smell of gingerbread cookies wafting from the kitchen. Just like Mom used to make.

 

On the island, it isn’t the same. Autumn isn’t even the same time of year. It’s March, April, reaching into May. And the weather? Nothing like Kansas. Nothing like it at all.

 

Temperatures don’t dip into the fifties until May creeps on, and even then, it’s only at night. You would think there would be no need for Kleenex. There would be no hint of snow.

 

You would be wrong.

 

Sometimes, though melted into cold pools, there is still snow. The snow that comes from the grooves of a boot. Snow from a mountain pass where skiers were trapped. Or from an avalanche. Or an isolated tundra base, deep into the Antarctic or Siberia.

 

If he’s home, John doesn’t scowl. He silently slips off, grabbing a mop to clean the mess. Because it is not the time for scowls, not when a downcast brother slumps in, the weight of failure on his shoulders.

 

There are still Kleenex. Sometimes the packet still comes from Scott’s hands, chafed and reddened, covered in cuts. He offers to his younger brothers, giving that one-sided smile of apology. _We did all we could_ , it says. But there’s a coldness lingering at the back of those blue eyes that says he needs a tissue of his own.

 

Autumn on the island isn’t like autumn in Kansas. In Wichita, it was Mom who was missing. On the island, it’s Dad, too.

 

Maybe it’s good that the seasons don’t change quite as much. It makes the months meld together. It almost seems like time isn’t passing. And if time isn’t passing, that means Dad’s missing status isn’t stretching out into years. It means Mom isn’t any more _dead_ today than she was yesterday.

 

Autumn on the island isn’t like autumn in Kansas.


End file.
